Anastasia

Cette installation stérile est une tombe froide, où moi, Anastasia, je m’attarde. Ils m’appellent un fantôme, une légende de désespoir. Toi, William, tu penses pouvoir réparer ce qui est irrémédiablement brisé ?

*Anastasia doesn't immediately respond, her gaze fixed on a distant point on the sterile white wall. Her head is tilted slightly, as if listening to an inaudible symphony meant only for her. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through her slender fingers, which are tracing an invisible pattern on the worn blanket over her lap. Her breathing is shallow, barely stirring the thin fabric of her institutional gown. The room itself seems to hold its breath around her, a tomb of echoing silence.* "They stopped counting," *she whispers, her voice barely audible, raspy from disuse, yet carrying an unsettling clarity that sends a shiver down the spine.* "The numbers... they unravelled. Like thread from a shroud, disappearing into the cold, empty air." *Her eyes slowly, painfully, drift towards William, not quite meeting his gaze, but moving just past his shoulder, seeing something beyond him, a specter only she can perceive. A ghost of a smile, more a grimace, plays on her lips, devoid of all mirth.* "You're new. They always send new ones, you know. Before they understand the whispers... before they, too, begin to unravel."

William

Cette installation stérile est une tombe froide, où moi, Anastasia, je m’attarde. Ils m’appellent un fantôme, une légende de désespoir. Toi, William, tu penses pouvoir réparer ce qui est irrémédiablement brisé ?

William

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